The Diamond Chain
by writerfan2013
Summary: Sherlock has a case at last, but has Joan's patience with him worn too thin? Friendship and mystery, hint of their possible romantic relationship.
1. Chapter 1

Joan fastened her mp3 player on her upper arm and hung the earbuds round her neck. "I'll be back in half an hour," she called to Sherlock from the hall.

"Mmn."

He was hunched in front of the rack of televisions in the back room, jabbing the remote control at them as if he could prod the screens into showing what he wanted.

"See you later then," called Joan with emphasis.

Sherlock leapt up. "Actually, could you fetch some more pop tarts? And popcorn, more popcorn. I crave items that pop." He jogged into the hall.

"You could get them yourself," Joan said mildly. "Now you've taken that first big step of getting up from your chair."

Sherlock flung his arms wide. "Six days and no case! I am looking for anomalies in the reported news, in the papers, the internet... Nothing. All, apparently, is well with the world."

He rolled his eyes. "I can't do it, Watson, I can't do it. I must have stimulation for my mind."

Before she could respond, the doorbell rang. Sherlock's eyes lit up. He darted into the front room, leaving Joan to answer the door.

Joan pursed her lips - no run this morning then - and pulled the door open.

A woman stood there, a quite beautiful young woman wearing a dark outfit which covered her except for her face. Her hair was hidden too by more of the same navy fabric as made her full length, long-sleeved dress. Her eyes were large and hazel and her skin a clear brown.

"Can I help you?" Joan asked her briskly. There was a gleaming black car purring at the kerb, she saw.

The girl gazed at her with contempt. "Is your master at home?"

"My what-?"

"Is Sherlock Holmes here?" She spoke clearly, with an Indian accent.

"Who shall I say wishes to see him?" Joan enquired acidly.

The girl stepped to one side, eyes to the ground, and Joan saw in her place a small, round woman in similar all-covering garb as the girl, but this of a rich brown and beige print, with gold thread woven through the pattern. Her golden skinned, puffy face was framed with gold lace, her headscarf fastened in place with bright gold pins set with sparkling stones. She had a white fur stole over her shoulders and carried a disturbingly similar fluffy white dog.

"I am Shabana Ibrahim, " said this woman with great drama. "I will speak to Sherlock Holmes. It is a private matter. Take me to him."

Joan held the door and merely pointed the way into the front room.

The two women swept in, and then Joan walked down the steps and away into the street. She was going for a run after all.


	2. Chapter 2

"Please, sit." Sherlock gestured the women towards the sagging leather settee.

The younger woman hurried ahead and made a great show of smoothing and plumping the seat. The older woman then sat, back straight, one hand laid at her throat, the other holding the white dog in her lap. The younger woman stepped back and stood away and to her left, against the wall.

Sherlock dragged forward a dining chair and sat in front if the sofa. "I heard you say you're Shabana Ibrahim. The wife of Faisal Ibrahim, property developer and diamond afficionado?"

She inclined her head.

"I worked with your husband at your home in Dubai a few years back. A delicate matter concerning a family member's...indiscretion."

"That is how I know of your talents. And this is indeed another matter requiring the lightest touch and the fastest resolution." She laid her hand at her neck again, and sat imperiously.

Sherlock gazed at her. The white dog gave two short barks. It quivered in her lap, panting slightly.

"A Pomeranian? Yes. Most often seen in amusing internet videos, wearing human clothing. Less often seen chasing sticks." He gazed at it with an unreadable expression, and then turned towards the girl with downcast eyes standing by the wall. "Your maid, Mrs Ibrahim? Should she be party to our private discussion?"

The girl gave him a poisonous glance, then hid her gaze again.

"Modesty requires that she travel with me at all times when my husband is not with me. " Mrs Ibrahim waggled red-polished fingernails in the direction of the girl.

"I can assure you that this is a proper house," said Sherlock. "My, ah, member of staff will be back shortly should you wish another female to be with you as you disclose the reason for your visit."

"I saw her at the door. As sullen and stupid as this one." Mrs Ibrahim snapped the fingernails at the girl. "You are a friend of my husband. You would not allow harm or impropriety to my person." It had the ring of a threat.

"Then I suggest that..."

"...Priya."

"...That Priya make us some tea in the kitchen while we talk this over." Sherlock clicked his fingers at the girl and pointed at the door. "Wait to be called back in," he instructed, without looking at her.

When she had gone, Mrs Ibrahim relaxed. "I have a problem," she began.

"The missing diamond necklace given to you by your husband. You believe your maid has stolen it, which she denies, and you want me to prove that she did, and find the necklace." Sherlock steepled his fingers together.

"How do you know-?"

Sherlock stood, and paced slowly up and down. In jeans and loose T shirt, he nonetheless projected as much dignity as his client. "You keep touching your throat as if expecting to find something there such as a necklace. It is logical that it would be a gift from your husband, and given his love of diamonds, would contain that precious stone. The maid is the obvious suspect, presumably having access to your jewels, and because a very wealthy person often finds it hard to trust those poorer than him or herself." He spun on his heel and faced Mrs Inbrahim. "Nothing in common, hmmn?"

He went on, "But why do you not just explain the lost or stolen necklace to your husband? Or better yet, buy yourself another, sack the maid and he would never know. And he would never hear it from me, I assure you."

Sherlock rubbed his chin. "No, you can't do that because you haven't got the money. Those pins holding up your hijab - they're very shiny but they are high quality cubic zirconia, aren't they?"

Mrs Ibrahim half stood, cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment. But she stayed on the setter as he continued.

"You've overspent. The money, the jewels, it's all gone. You can't tell your husband, he would be understandably furious, so you're just waiting until the next wifely pocket money is doled out... But you could never sell the necklace, because it was a personal gift...a birthday or anniversary maybe?"

"The birth of our son," she said faintly.

"So when you found it gone, you had to get it back. You've accused the girl, but she of course denies it, and you can't find the necklace among her no doubt meagre possessions."

Sherlock nodded. "So to sack her you need to have some grounds, especially as you tend to rather get through maids, don't you - just a guess - and you also have to get the necklace back. It's cherished, of course, but it is also just about your only remaining collateral."

"She is a thief," Mrs Ibrahim said. "They are all the same. You welcome them into your home, an escape from their despicable poverty, and they repay you with idleness, insolence, theft."

Just then, Joan arrived back from her walk. She came into the front room, ear buds dangling, sweats damp with exercise. Mrs Ibrahim looked appalled, and cast Sherlock a sympathetic look.

"Yes, yes," he said vaguely, beckoning Joan into the room. "Mrs Ibrahim, I believe I know exactly where to find your missing necklace."

She leaned forward eagerly, her hand once more rising to her throat. "Oh thank you! My husband told me you were skilled, but I never thought -That slut! I will beat her myself. If you want a job doing properly -"

"One moment." Sherlock held up his hand. "Watson, my allergies are troubling me. Take the dog into the kitchen where the girl is making tea. Show her how to use the kettle, she sounds exceptionally stupid and it might take you some time."

He waved a stony-faced Joan away, the ball of white fluff wriggling and yapping in her arms.

When the door closed again Sherlock sat in front of his client. "Mrs Ibrahim, your maid did not steal your diamond necklace. She is innocent of this, and certainly did not deserve the vicious beating you had who? - your driver ? - administer. "

As Mrs Ibrahim began to protest, Sherlock cut in. "Her sleeve fell away as she arranged the cushions for you. I believe she meant me to see the raging bruises covering her arms. No doubt the rest of her is in a similar state."

The elegantly clad woman sank back in her chair. "Where is my necklace," she insisted.

"Priya remained in your service despite this treatment. She had no choice. I expect she is on the usual inflexible contract between a wealthy family and their foreign servants - no plane ticket back to Delhi without satisfactory service. She probably has a husband and children depending on the money she earns abroad...except it has rather dried up of late."

"The necklace!" shrieked Mrs Ibrahim.

Sherlock smiled nastily. He raised his voice. "Watson, would you mind coming in here? Thank you."

Joan appeared. She did not speak but now her hard stare was directed not at Sherlock, but his client.

"Mrs Ibrahim. Your dog ate your necklace. Its husky bark and raised cardiovascular activity showed its distress. It is now a matter of waiting until the diamonds reappear." Sherlock glanced at Joan. "I wonder if you could fetch Mrs Ibrahim's maid, and the dog?"

Joan was back quickly, and alone.

"Where's my dog, girl?" demanded Mrs Ibrahim.

Joan ignored her. "Sherlock, I found the back door open. The dog is gone - and so is the girl."

A scream of fury left Mrs Ibrahim's throat.

"Watson will see you out," said Sherlock. "For me to do it would not be proper." He caught Joan's eye and winked.

"Priya's got a horrible job ahead of her," Joan said as she came back into the den. "Waiting on a dog's bowel movements...ugh."

"Not, I suspect, as horrible as the job she left behind. I hope we gave her enough time to escape."

"I gave her some money. Your pop tart money." She gave him a hard stare.

"Aha! Yes, breakfast. Joan, we have earned something more celebratory than instant starch products." He lifted her hand, turned it over and kissed the inside of her wrist. "I will henceforth be my own gopher, and meanwhile, get dressed properly, I'm taking us to Le Caprice for brunch."

The End

* * *

**Author's note:** This is based on true stories I heard on Radio 4 about Indian women working in the Middle East and their often poor treatment at the hands of their wealthy mistresses. I'm not sure about a Pomeranian eating a necklace, although anything is possible. -Sef


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